Nostalgia from my childhood and what I wasn’t alive for.
Reminding me of listening to the radio and CD players.
Played for the umpteenth time and still heard for the first.
Connected through lyrics written with passion and strength.
Understood for the art it was intended to be.
Instrumentals pouring through my soul like Henny on ice.
Being transported nationally and internationally by the taps of my fingers.
Careless enough to explore any genre of my choosing.
Appreciated for the creativity and beauty and dedication.

A chance to escape to forget but never forgetting to truly escape.

Music has the power to inspire those that also want to create.
It can set you free if you let it.
Music can turn a world on its head back upside.
It can lift up a hung-down head, bring joy to a sad spirit.
Music can do what’s wanted and especially needed.

My ears and my heart cherish the instrumentals, the lyrics, the chance to find memories,
the opportunity to vibe.
Chance after chance to enjoy just one thing as it was, is, and always will be.

-Mia J
9/2/2024

© 2024 Mia J

That’s Nice

The sweet, warm words you say to me and the way you hold me so close is so nice.

That’s nice
That you think of me, often
and I reciprocate
Always and in all ways.

That’s nice
That you kind of love me the same way that I love you.

That’s  just so
Nice.

you left with no signal,
flying high, eagled eyed,
peering down at
all the towns
you passed over,
blue through burning
but never stopping, stilling
to listen but not hearing
those other throbbing tunes
playing in back of black rooms

oh, how you concealing
the ambiguous depths,
of ***** deals squealing,
the mess of contradictions
you can’t help revealing,
leaving rust, dimming dust
full in on the chokehold
of others hands upon my heart

still
your hearts are throbbing
in synchronization to
the river flowing of my
words needy & begging
for a timely releasing by,
in anticipation of ending
the sun’s confinement
on the other side of the
dark perimeter of the planet

where poets dare to tread
knowing the jeopardy to
themselves when their truths
are outed by the light shedding
come the morning’s birthing

11:44pm
2/28/25

can you guess what movie I watched last?

Wind-carved
spine twisted—feral, gnarled.
A body bent,
splintered—never severed.

Salt licked wounds raw. Brine sutured marrow.
Bark flayed to ribbons, limbs ink-blurred—
curling, unwritten. A thing undone, a thing refusing.

Roots plunged—teeth to brittle earth,
ribs against collapse.
Cliff crumbling, gravity unspooling—
but it held.

White-knuckled in ruin.
Fingers clawing the wind.
Wreckage. Crooked. Unnatural.

An old man exhaled— Survival isn’t always beautiful.

But what is beauty, if not this—
a body unmade, carved by violence,
and still, somehow, bloom?